


Here for the Chase

by tweed_princess



Series: Here for the Chase [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Chef!Jon, F/M, Game of Thrones: Canada Edition, Modern AU, Pastry Artist!Sansa, Seriously guys everyone's Canadian, basically pure fluff, restaurant AU, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/pseuds/tweed_princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recent pastry school graduate Sansa Stark has just landed herself a job at an up and coming Michelin-rated restaurant in downtown Toronto, Canada. The sous chef is pretty cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A silly little story idea, but I love GoT and Jon and Sansa and food, so I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Story title from "Favourite Colour" by Tokyo Police Club.

Watching Chopped Canada has been a weekly tradition for Sansa Stark and her brother’s girlfriend Jeyne ever since Jeyne and Robb had become serious. This week is especially important, because her ex-boyfriend Joffrey is on the show. It is so important, in fact, that Sansa’s brother Robb and her sister Arya have joined in, hoping to see him fail.

“There’s always one guy exactly like Joffrey on this show. Arrogant and privileged. I think we’re _supposed_ to root against him,” Arya says, smirking. It is only the appetizer round, and Joffrey is already slipping. She and Robb watch with delight as he attempts to shove a stick of carrot into a Cornish hen wing, his hands shaking. The show had revealed that he was currently working as a station chef on a cruise ship. Jeyne was absolutely tickled pink with that.

“I mean, honestly. Stuffing a chicken wing _that small_ with a carrot stick,” Jeyne says, rolling her eyes. “What an idiot.”

“He looks so stupid when he concentrates like that,” Robb says with a laugh, sitting back on the couch. He slings his arm over Jeyne’s shoulder.

Sansa doesn’t say anything, choosing this time to pray to every god available that he gets eliminated. She is still mad at Joffrey, for his infidelities and his unwillingness to take responsibility for his own mistakes. He had broken her heart, and Sansa cannot help but feel that this will take away some of the ache.

The judges chew at Joffrey’s plate, describing it as “weird” and “an interesting idea with poor execution”. When the dramatic music plays and the host lifts the metal cloche and Joffrey’s dish is revealed on the “chopping block”, the whole room erupts. Well, except for Sansa, who snorts derisively and folds her arms over her chest.

After the commotion has ended, Jeyne turns to Sansa. “So, are you excited about tomorrow?”

“Terrified,” Sansa admits. After a short stint in a silly cupcake shop post-culinary school, Sansa had been hired at a real, bona-fide Michelin star restaurant as the new pastry chef. As a station chef, Jeyne had had at least somewhat of a hand in her securing an interview, but the owner, Tyrion Lannister insisted that the cake she had made for the interview was just _that good._

“There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of, Sansa. Everyone there is just lovely.” Jeyne frowns. “Well, actually, the maître d’ is a creep, but everyone else…”

“Is he cute?” Sansa asks. Robb raises his eyebrows. “I’m kidding.”

“He’s like… forty. You’d best keep Petyr away from my sister, or Casterly Rock will be looking for a new maître d’,” Robb warns Jeyne. “I remember you telling me that he had cornered Margaery in the freezers.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _cornered…_ ” Jeyne begins. “And besides, Jon’s had his eye on Petyr ever since.”

\--

The other pastry chef, Margaery, had come in early to give Sansa a tour. It was certainly spacious, and she and Margaery have a nice set-up towards the back, complete with a long metal work table, two large ovens, two giant Kitchen Aid mixers, and more pastry tools than Sansa could ever dream of, all hung neatly on pegboards.

“I don’t mean to sound like a hag, but I really insist that we keep everything where it belongs on the walls. It drives me absolutely bonkers when Theon borrows something and then returns it to a place it doesn’t belong,” Margaery says. Her accent is English and Sansa wonders how she ended up here, as a pastry chef in a restaurant in downtown Toronto, instead of London or something.

“Perfect, I’m a total neat freak,” Sansa says, bouncing on her heels.

“We’ll get along swimmingly, then,” Margaery says, looping her arm through Sansa’s. Sansa’s not sure how to feel about her; she seems nice, but perhaps a bit fake.

The door to the kitchen swings open and the owner of the restaurant enters, holding two flats of strawberries. Behind him are Jeyne and an attractive man with a short beard and black hair that Sansa does not recognize. Jeyne has a bushel of heirloom tomatoes, and the man has a large, shrink-wrapped leg of lamb slung over his left shoulder, and a bag of produce over his right.

“Ah! I see you’re showing our newest pastry chef around the kitchen,” Tyrion says, setting the strawberries on the table, which he is level with. “Sansa, you know Jeyne, of course. This is our sous-chef, Jon Snow.”

Jon reaches his hand out to Sansa, lamb still hung over his shoulder. He seems a bit shy, but is smile is genuine. “Great to meet you, Sansa. Welcome aboard.”

Tyrion laughs at this. “Ha! _Meet_! Because, you know, he has a leg of—“ He stops himself, frowning. “You know what, never mind. Margaery, take a look at these strawberries. It's almost as if they're in-season. Look at how tiny they are.”

Margaery coos at the little strawberries, and invites Sansa over to look. They are small, and when Tyrion pops open a clamshell and invites everyone to taste one, they are perfect and sweet, not too tart at all, unlike the ones one might usually find in January. “We’ll have to find something to do with them, Sansa.”

“White cake with berry buttercream?” Sansa suggests. “Simple, light, classic…”

“Fantastic idea!” Tyrion announces, clapping his hands together. “Oh! I almost forgot. Jon, the wine.” Jon grins, and retreats to outside the kitchen, coming back with a heavy-looking case of red wine.

Tyrion grins. “Petyr’s going to kill me for trying this when he’s not here.” He grabs a wine corker from his pocket as Jon pulls one of the bottles out. “$143 CAD for a single bottle.” Sansa’s eyes widen.

 “I don’t think I’ve ever had wine that was over $20 a bottle,” she says. Tyrion laughs as the cork wiggles its way out.

“You’re in for a treat, then.”

\--

As the time for dinner prep comes nearer, more and more of the staff comes in. Another station chef, Samwell Tarly, comes in first. He is plump and pleasant, and Jon introduces him as his best friend. Sansa also meets two men, Theon Greyjoy and Gendry Waters, both prep cooks. A few minutes later, she meets Yara, Theon’s older sister and their resident butcher, Sandor Clegane the dishwasher, Gilly the head waitress, and Petyr Baelish the maître d’. She can feel Jon and Sam’s eyes watching her as he shakes her hand.

There are dozens more people that filter in, wait staff mostly, but Sansa does not have the chance to get to know their names before she and Margaery begin to bake their cakes. Margaery begins with a sponge cake, and Sansa starts on her white cake that she intends to frost with berry buttercream.

After it’s done baking and it’s cooled, Sansa gently sets the first layer on her rotating cake plate, plopping a splat of buttercream on its surface with a flat spatula. She smooths the frosting out, and then continues with the next two layers. The frosting is always so soothing to her, especially the part where she begins to cover the outside of the cake. Rotating the cake plate with her left hand, she smooths the frosting out with the spatula in her right hand, humming along to the music on the radio (currently set to Jon’s custom Spotify playlist) as she does so.

“I don’t know how you and Margaery do it,” a voice says from behind her. She turns, and it is Jon. He scratches his left shoulder with his right, a sort of nervous habit. “I have no patience for the pastry arts. It looks beautiful.”

Sansa smiles, feeling her face burn ever-so-slightly. “Well, I can’t cook meat worth a damn, so…” They both laugh. “I always overcook my steaks because I’m afraid of undercooking them, and my chicken is always dry because I’m terrified of getting salmonella.”

Jon taps the thermometer in his right sleeve pocket with his left finger, still smiling. “I’ll teach you to cook a good, medium rare steak this evening, if it’s as slow as a typical Tuesday and someone orders one.”

“It’s a deal.” As Jon walks away, Margaery catches her eye with a small smile.

\--

Sansa comes home around 7 PM, completely exhausted but giddy. She lets Arya and their mother know that she absolutely _adores_ this job, everyone is so nice, and it’s an amazing kitchen. She doesn’t mention flirting (was that flirting?) with the hot sous chef or the creepy maître d’, however.

Jon had never gotten around to teaching Sansa how to cook that steak, promising her that he would eventually. Sam had declared this Tuesday to be one of the busiest Tuesday’s he thinks he’s ever seen in the restaurant’s three years of operation.

Every so often, as she was piping frosting and cleaning up her work station, she noticed Jon, sautéing and flambéing and assigning tasks. His curly black hair was pulled back from his face and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Thinking back on it, as Sansa drifts off to sleep on the couch in front of the news, it was probably the most attractive thing she’s seen in a long time.


	2. Misty Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's really getting along well with the team, so Margaery invites her over for a game night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much kitchen stuff in this chapter, I'm afraid. Just lots of dialogue and snow and pink wine.  
> 

Sansa finds herself fitting in quite nicely within the rhythm of the kitchen at Casterly Rock. She and Margaery seem to work together so well that Tyrion is seriously considering expanding the dessert menu. Likewise, the two have made fast friends, with Sansa deciding that she likes Margaery after all. All of her previous friends had been through Joffrey, and so she had lost them in the breakup. This was a consequence of pouring her heart and soul into a relationship that was doomed from the start, something that Sansa swore to never do to herself again.

 Margaery seems to be so keen on Sansa, in fact, that she invites her over for a board game night after the restaurant closes. As the two of them finish up three hours before the rest, Sansa joins Margaery to gather cheese, crackers, and fruit from the grocery store, and then to the liquor store to purchase wine.

“With this crew, there must always be wine,” Margaery insists as she reaches for a relatively cheap red Merlot with a modern-looking label. She places it in the basket next to a bottle of white and the rosé that Sansa has picked out for herself. “Although Jon prefers beer- IPAs, specifically. The more bitter, the better.” Margaery gives Sansa a weird little smile, and Sansa feels as though the other woman intends for her to remember this. She can’t help but make a mental note.

Before bringing her to her apartment, Margaery swings by Sansa’s house to allow her to freshen up and change. She lets her mother and father know that she’ll be out late, perhaps not coming home at all, so they’d best not wait up for her. Sansa knows they feel some sort of relief at her finally attempting to have a social life, so they tell her to have a good time with wide grins.

Once at her apartment, Margaery busies herself with setting up the board game on her relatively small dining room table, while Sansa slices the cheese and cuts the fruit and lays it out on the island countertop.

“So, how do you like Casterly Rock thus far?” asks Margaery.

“I love it,” Sansa says with a grin. “Everyone is really great. It’s a good team. And- I can’t lie. Working under Tyrion Lannister is so cool that sometimes I have to pinch myself.”

“He really likes you, you know. I can tell,” Margaery says, placing down the last few tiles of Settlers of Catan. “Both him and Jon.”

Done with her cutting board, Sansa turns to the sink so that her blush is hidden from view. The buzzer rings and Margaery runs to get it, and she is greeted by Jon, Sam, and Gilly, Sam’s waitress girlfriend. Sansa doesn’t want to be rude, but she doesn’t dare turn around, as she is certain her face is still bright red.

“Always with the IPAs, Jon,” Margaery teases. “Don’t you drink anything else?”

“Why should I?” he replies, walking towards the refrigerator. As he sets his six pack of Great Lakes Thrust! IPA on the bottom shelf, he greets Sansa with kind eyes, and she greets him in return.

“What are we playing tonight?” Sam asks.

“Well, I was thinking it might be fun to play Settlers of Catan, and you absolutely _must not_ disagree with me, because I’ve already set it all up.” Margaery’s eyes are twinkling at this, and Sam laughs.

“I could go for Settlers,” he says, glancing at Gilly, who nods in agreement.

Sansa plays the game seated between Gilly and Jon. They all have a really great time, getting tipsy on wine (and beer for Jon), and both Margaery and Jon are so competitive with each other for longest road that Sansa’s chest hurts from laughing. Although Jon wins that competition, Sam is the one that wins the game. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he says with a grin.

“Shall we play another game? I have Fluxx.” Margaery suggests.

“Hm, I don’t think I can even think about playing another game. I’ve finished almost this whole bottle of pink wine,” Sansa says, pressing her face into the cool varnished table.

“Okay, none of you lushes are driving home tonight,” decides Margaery. “How about a movie?”

They all agree that a movie sounds fantastic, but Sam and Gilly fall asleep on the air mattress that Margaery has laid out for them before they can agree on anything on Netflix or Hulu. The rest of them agree that perhaps it is time for bed, and Margaery retires to her bedroom.

Sansa isn’t tired, so she sits on one end of the small couch. It is the only couch Margaery has, and Jon is sitting on it with her. She hadn’t been truly aware of how small the couch really is until this moment; however, she feels bold and silly from the wine so she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Are you tired? I can leave the couch, if you’d like,” Jon offers. Sansa shakes her head.

“No. Just fuzzy and warm and happy. I’m actually really hungry. And there’s no more cheese left.”

“There’s a 24-hour McDonalds just down the street,” Jon says, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t remember the last time I had McDonalds…”

Sansa gives him a slight shove, laughing. “Oh stop it, _Jamie Oliver_. McDonalds sounds absolutely amazing right now.” She’s practically drooling at the thought. She sends a text to Margaery, letting her know that they’ve run to McDonalds in case she worries, and head out of the door with Margaery’s keys.

The street is quiet, peaceful, with no lights but the yellowish streetlights. Big, fat, lake-effect snowflakes are slowly falling from the sky, and Sansa cannot help but notice how they land on Jon’s eyelashes.

“We’ll have to walk slowly. I worry about black ice,” he says, offering an arm out to her. She accepts it.

“We’ll both go down together, then,” she says, grinning. “Are you from Toronto?”

“Yeah. Mount Dennis. How about you?”

“The suburbs. Aurora. I still live there, with my parents. You know, student loans.” Jon nods, and they are silent for a moment. “Yeesh, small talk.”

He laughs. “How about the weather?”

She looks up at the sky, blinking the snowflakes out of her eyes. “Still snowy. Wife? Kids?”

“No, you?”

“Six kids, actually. And I’m on my fourth wife. At the age of twenty-three, can you believe it?”

“Wow!”

A beat. Sansa blames the wine when she blurts out, “My ex-boyfriend was on Chopped last week.”

“I see. Did he win the $10,000, or was he sent to the chopping block?”

“No, he was eliminated in the first round. It was…” She takes in a deep breath. “Cathartic.”

Jon nods in understanding. “I take it it didn’t end well?”

“Does it ever, really?” she sighs. _Why am I talking about this?_ “He was a cheating bastard. But it was time. He wasn’t very kind or generous or romantic or any of those things you hope for in a man.”

“How long ago did it happen?” His voice has lost any edge of playfulness, and is now just soft.

“We’ve been broken up officially for… four months? We’d met in our first year of culinary school, and he was all I’d ever known.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You don’t need to be. It was really hard to let go, but when I did, I knew it was worth it.”

He chuckles. “Don’t I know it.”

They walk in silence the rest of the way, Sansa almost slipping once on a patch of ice, but Jon catches her in strong arms.  _Of course._

Inside the McDonalds, Sansa orders a cheeseburger, a Diet Coke, and a large fry, with the intention of splitting it with Jon. He accepts her offering, laughing that he doesn’t want her to call him Jamie Oliver again.

He walks her back to Margaery’s apartment, on sidewalks that seem to have two more inches of snow than before. She is tired, so he lets her take the couch while he curls up on the carpet with a blanket and a couch pillow.

As she’s falling asleep, she bites back a grin.

\--

When she awakes the next morning, it is nearing ten, and Jon, Sam, and Gilly have already left.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Margaery cheerily calls from the stove, where she is cooking eggs. “Over easy?”

“Of course,” Sansa says, sitting up. “Thank you.”

“They left shortly after eight thirty. Jon said he didn’t want to wake you. Long night?” Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are raised.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sansa warns, but Margaery starts laughing. “It wasn’t like that. I was drunk, and hungry, there was a McDonalds…”

“Sure, sure.” Margaery flips the egg with her thin metal spatula. “He likes you, you know. I overheard Theon teasing him about it.”

Sansa frowns. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I haven’t been the only one who’s noticed the way he looks at you, silly.” She slides the egg onto a plate with two slices of toast. “And boy _does_ he look at you.”

Sansa makes an exasperated noise and flops back on the couch. “I told myself I would never get involved with another chef ever again--“

“And yet here we are, darling.”


	3. What I'm Trying to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon drags Sansa to the farmer's market at the ass crack of dawn. Sansa bakes. Margaery schemes. Jon has something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of detail that I'd try to slip into the story somewhere if I could guarantee it wouldn't feel out of place:  
> Bran is 19 (and a bio major, philosophy minor!), Arya is 21, Sansa is 23. Margaery is 25. Jon, Jeyne Westerling, and Robb are all 26. You can kind of figure out how old everyone else is by how old they are in relation to those characters in the book/show. Petyr is 40-something, no one knows what his age is, and no one cares.

Margaery, the little sneak, had suggested to Tyrion that Sansa attend the St. Lawrence Market with Jon, for “you know, ideas”, and Tyrion thought that was an absolutely excellent proposition. Tyrion even offers to pay her for it, and Sansa’s already begun thinking about what she can do with the money. Jon likes to show up at the market early, to get the absolute best selection, so _of course_ Sansa is buttoning the last button on her peacoat and tugging a cowl over her head before the sun has even risen. 

Jon’s old Volvo pulls into her driveway promptly at six, and Sansa bounds down her driveway to his passenger door.

“I hope you’re well rested,” Jon says, voice almost cheery. “Here, I got you a coffee. Extra cream, no sugar, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Sansa grabs it out of the passenger side cup holder and holds it in her hands. It is almost certainly too hot to drink, but just holding the warmth in her hands feels nice.

Sansa’s too tired for conversation, choosing instead to rest her head on the window and watch the cars go by. Jon seems content with this, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the radio. Sansa can’t help but notice that the silence isn’t particularly awkward like it usually is with other people. It actually feels quite comfortable.

When they arrive at the market, they park easily, but there are already several people in the parking lot. “The market opens up at five. A lot of chefs like to show up as early as possible to get the best stuff. I’m not quite _that_ crazy.”

Sansa groans. “Jon, it’s six-thirty in the morning. You’re insane. _All_ of you are insane.”

Jon chuckles. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

Tyrion has given Jon a fairly specific list, in order for “maximum freshness”. The list starts with fruits and vegetables, moves on to cheeses, and then meats, and finally, seafood. As Jon carefully compares blue and green-veined cheeses to pair with butternut squash, Sansa loops her arm through his. His lips twitch a small smile, but he quickly relaxes before continuing his out-loud solo debate on whether he wants Stilton, Roquefort, or Gorgonzola for today’s special.

Jon buys them both another cup of coffee after Sansa finally finishes hers, around 7:30, along with croissant for himself and a _pain au chocolat_ for Sansa. They find a spot at a small table.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Mm.” Sansa holds up her finger and swallows the piece of bread she’s chewing. “The market’s great. I can’t say much for getting up this early…”

Jon smiles. “Well, thanks for braving it out with me today. You’re really good company.”

She tries to will herself not to blush, but cannot help the pink that tinges her cheeks. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

\--

Sansa shows Margaery and Tyrion her spoils (pears from a produce stand, for poaching, candied sour Morello cherries and almond paste from a European imports vendor) and explains her intentions to bake a few pear and almond tarts. They both approve of the idea, with Margaery clapping her hands together. Jon gives her a grin from across the kitchen. He knew that both would be keen to the idea.

Sansa is nearly giddy to find that the tart she is baking makes the entire kitchen smells like a French patisserie. By the time the third tart is finished, Theon, Sam, and Tyrion have all commented on how delicious it smells. As the restaurant opens, Gilly and Jeyne Poole begin recommending the tart to their tables; they sell so quickly that Sansa plates her last slice at seven, and Margaery and Jon both give her a thumbs up. Fortunately, she and Margaery have made enough menu items to last through the rest of the shift.

Saturday night is by far the most hectic, so the entire kitchen has seemed to almost move in a blur from open to close. Sansa cannot help but watch the way that Jon works, handling both the stove in front of him and keeping Gendry and Theon on task. He’s made a lot of steak tonight, and she cannot help but think about the lesson in steak that he’d promised her.

Sansa ends up leaving the restaurant at 9, completely exhausted from an incredibly long day. Jon seems a little worn down when she leaves, but he’s certainly in better shape than she is.

\--

Arya and Bran are still up when she gets home around ten, watching episodes of Star Trek: Voyager on Netflix. Rickon is already in bed, and their parents are at a dog show in Boston with a few of the huskies. They both beg Sansa to sit down and watch with them (“ _Captain Janeway_ , Sansa! How could you refuse?!”), and she genuinely tries, but ends up falling asleep on the recliner within twenty minutes. Arya and Bran coax her into getting up and going to bed after the episode ends, at around 11, and she’s conked out mere minutes after she strips off her bra and pants and slips into the bed.  

Sansa’s phone dings at around 11:30, and Sansa thinks about ignoring it for a moment. Unable to resist, she grabs it, and squints at it with only one eye open. It’s a text from Jon.

_“Drinks? Everyone’s going.”_

Sansa frowns. _“You’re insane. Go home. Go to bed.”_

_“I’ll buy you pink wine.”_

_“6 am, Jon. I am never leaving this bed again. I am going to die here.”_

Jon sends a frowny face, followed by a _“Goodnight, Sansa.”_

Sansa types out _“Rain check on the pink wine? Goodnight, Jon”_ and bites her lip, wondering if it’s too forward or stupid. She hits send anyway, and instantly regrets it, burying her head into the pillow to scream. Her phone dings, and she’s too afraid to look, but when she does, all it says is “ _It’s a date_ ”.

\--

“’It’s a date’ is just a thing people say. It doesn’t necessarily mean _date_ date,” Sansa whispers. She, like an idiot, had shown Margaery the texts, and Margaery had given her the same look she always does when she’s scheming.

“You’re blushing,” Margaery responds in a hushed tone as she chops up chocolate. It’s officially February, and the cake of the month is a dense, rich flourless chocolate cake, topped with powdered sugar and fresh raspberries and whipped cream. Sansa blames her flushed complexion on the oven and her vigorous shaking of the whipped cream canister in her hand and Margaery laughs at her.

Jeyne stops by their section of the kitchen to let her know that she’ll be picking up the snacks for their weekly viewing of Chopped Canada. Sansa’s jaw drops when Margaery asks her what _she_ thinks ‘it’s a date’ means.

“Depends on the context,” Jeyne says thoughtfully. She must notice Sansa’s expression, because she gives her a look when she asks what that context is, exactly.

“Well- I, uh. It’s just that- someone had invited me out and I’d said no because I was in bed but I asked for a raincheck and he said the… the thing that Margaery said.“

“Oh, Jon? Yeah, your brother and I were there when he invited you. He didn’t tell me that part, though.” She winks and laughs at Sansa as she walks away. When Theon asks her what’s so funny, she just shrugs.

Sansa spares a glance to Tyrion’s office door. Jon’s been in there all night, preparing for the special menu for Valentine’s Day and the weekend before, which Tyrion hopes to announce by the end of tonight.

“I mean, you got a text, right? He texted you asking you to come out?” Sansa asks Margaery as she sprinkles sugar over a crème brûlée that a customer has ordered.

“I never got a text,” Margaery says, weighing the chopped chocolate into 230 gram portions. “Maybe you should just talk to him. Ask him what he thinks is going on.”

Sansa bites her lip, aiming her blowtorch. “I _can’t_. I have never done anything like that.”

Margaery shrugs. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Margaery sweetly offers to clean up the work station as soon as Tyrion’s office door opens and Jon tells him to have a good night. Sansa protests, but Margaery _insists,_ so Sansa has no choice but to try and dawdle getting her coat and scarf on so that Jon can leave the restaurant before her.

 Of course, when she leaves, Jon is waiting outside, eyes on his phone. It is snowing again, _of course,_ because someone somewhere has decided that this shall be the Winter That Never Ends.

He clears his throat. “Can I walk you to your car?”

Sansa nods, and she suddenly feels very shaky and nervous. The less-than-five-minute walk looming ahead seems like an hour.

They begin to walk. "Okay." Jon exhales loudly, scratching his neck nervously. “Sansa, I feel like I’ve been… inappropriate with you.”

Sansa feigns innocence. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Jon.” _I know exactly what you mean and I don’t want you to stop._

“I don’t want you to think that, you know, because I’m the sous chef, I expect you to— ah. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I’m not meaning to come off as some sort of… Petyr…” He shoves his hands in his pockets. _Stop._

Sansa laughs at this. “Jon, you’re not a Petyr. You’re not some sort of… forty-five-old man who follows girls into walk-in coolers. And besides, I _know_ you don’t have any sort of expectation. I just like being around you. I don't want things to change.”

He raises his eyebrows for a moment. “Good! Good. I like being around you, too. And it’s good that you know that I don’t have expectations, because I…” Jon frowns. “I’m sorry, I’m really awful at this. I’ve never had to do this, ever, in my life.”

Sansa feels like she knows exactly what _this_ is, that she’s being let down gently, and he’s being so nice about it and she definitely doesn’t want to hear any more of it. “No worries. Message received. Loud and clear.” She gives him a thumbs up, and then opens her driver’s side door. “Have a good night, Jon.”

“Drive safe, Sansa.” His smile is sad when he waves and turns to leave, and she knows it's because he pities her. As she starts her car and the engine turns over, the tears let loose, and she smacks her hands against the steering wheel.

“SHIT! Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”  


	4. Born With A Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is a mess. Jon is confused. Neither of them are entirely sure about what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, my darlings! Thank you all for your feedback, it keeps me going.

“I’m an idiot, I’m a giant idiot who got her hopes up and got way to invested in a guy that I’ve known for, what, three weeks? A big, fat, giant idiot…” says Sansa into Jeyne’s shoulder.

“Stop.” Jeyne rests her head upon Sansa’s. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

“I’ve ruined _everything_.” Sansa winces as she takes a sip of the beer that she found in the fridge, something gross and bitter and right up her Dad’s alley. Something that Jon would probably like.

She hasn’t been able to concentrate on Chopped Canada all night; she doesn’t even know what the basket ingredients are, nor has she picked out the Contestant to Irrationally Hate (an award bestowed weekly by a special committee made up solely of Sansa and Jeyne).

“You have _not_.” Jeyne says. Robb appears in the doorway, and Sansa can see when Jeyne gives him a look. He seems more than happy to retreat back into the kitchen. She wonders if Jeyne has told Robb, and if everyone thinks she’s acting like an idiot teenager.

Sansa sighs. “Maybe it’s for the best. You shouldn’t shit where you eat.” Jeyne makes a face, obviously unaware of the expression.

\--

Monday is the day that the restaurant is closed, and Sansa is incredibly grateful for this. She spends the morning perusing Tinder, something that she’d never had the opportunity to use before, as she was certain her relationship with Joffrey had started before the app had been created. There had always been some sort of morbid curiosity attached to the app, but now she’s mostly just bored. She finds herself swiping left on almost every single person offered to her, feeling like she’s a little too late to the show, and is almost relieved when Margaery calls her to see how last night went.

Sansa tells Margaery exactly what has happened and is surprised to find herself crying. Margaery must be able to hear it in her voice, and offers to be there, like _right now_ , but Sansa refuses, telling her that she needs to stop dwelling on it all. Margaery seems to understand, and lets Sansa know the same thing that Jeyne had told her: she hasn’t _ruined everything_ , but whether either of them mean in a general sense or with Jon, she isn’t sure _._ Sansa can’t help but blame Margaery and her meddling for some part in all of this, but then remembers the way her chest felt when she laid eyes on him and knows it would have happened anyway.

Her mother and father had returned from Boston the night before, with cause to celebrate: Bran’s boy, Summer, had won Best of Breed. They both take the day off, and Robb comes over, and the whole family, minus Jeyne, sit down to watch the movie Best in Show, a sort of post-show tradition amongst them.

Robb explains that Jeyne is in St. Catherine’s visiting her family for the day, and then reaches into his pocket to pull out a velvet box. Inside is a diamond-and-sapphire ring that makes Sansa and their mother gasp and their father clap him on the back. “It’s about time,” Arya says, and she’s right; they’d all first started taking bets on when it would happen two years ago, and it seemed like it was time back then. Sansa wonders if Bran is already mentally spending his money. 

Robb tells them of his plans to show up to Casterly Rock on Valentine’s Day to do it in front of a restaurant full of people; Tyrion is already in on it. He asks if Sansa if she thinks that she can spread the word among the other people in the restaurant so they may be present and she agrees to do so happily.

Sansa sends out texts to everyone she has in her contacts list, and asks Margaery to text those who she doesn’t have. She receives a response promptly from everyone, except Jon, who doesn’t text her back until almost five hours later. His text is followed by a “ _Can I see you later?_ ”, which makes Sansa irrationally angry, so she tells him that she has plans with her family, which isn’t entirely untrue. He responds “ _Tomorrow, then_.”

She knows what he wants to talk to her about. He feels bad for making her upset, she thinks, and he wants to apologize for leading her on. She has no interest in hearing it, but isn’t sure how to avoid the conversation forever.

Sansa’s mother makes a pot roast for dinner, and she and Bran and Rickon help cut carrots, potatoes, and onions. Their mother tells them all about the dog show and who else attended, last names like Mormont that she remembers from her childhood. They laugh as Cat tells them about the tenacity of the littlest Mormont, 10-year-old Lyanna. Sansa thinks she remembers her in diapers.

Dinner is delicious when it is finally finished, and Ned, Robb, and Arya offer to clean up. Rickon begs Bran to play Magic: The Gathering with him, and Bran concedes, while Sansa and her mother retire to the living room. Her mother asks her if she can French braid her hair, and Sansa sits down in front of her on the floor. She thinks that perhaps her mother knows that something is eating away at her, but is choosing not to mention it out of mercy.

Her sweet dog Lady is already in her bed when she heads to her room that night, and Sansa falls asleep with one hand in her fur.

\--

As typical for a Tuesday, the next day is uneventful, as far as work days go. Sansa and Margaery keep busy with their cakes and Margaery seems to know not to bring up anything remotely to do with Jon. Early in her shift, Jon had tried to catch her eye once or twice, but when she had acted like she hadn’t seen, he seemed to have taken the hint. Sansa can feel the tension emanating from the other side of the room, and wonders if everyone else can feel it too.

As Sansa leaves that night and heads towards her car, she hears a familiar voice call out to her. She knows who it is, of course, but she slows down anyway so he can catch up with her.

“I hope I didn’t freak you out the other night.”

“You didn’t freak me out,” Sansa says. She’s being honest, at least. “Not at all.”

Jon stops and frowns, eyes searching hers. “Are you sure?”

“We had an adult conversation. We established boundaries. It’s fine.”

“Wait!” He jogs up to meet her. “Something was established? Were we having two different conversations?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Jesus, Sansa, will you just stop for a moment and talk to me?” She stops. He runs a hand through his hair. “What is wrong with you today? What did I do?”

Her resolve breaks. It’s nothing _he_ did, and she feels like an asshole for making him feel this way. She can feel the tears welling up in her eyes, and she dabs at them. “You didn’t do anything. I shouldn’t take things so harshly- it was stupid of me to get my hopes up, I don’t know why I did…” She’s babbling now, aware that nothing she’s saying is coherent. He looks dumbfounded. “I just need a few days to recover, it’s been a rough year, I wasn’t expecting to get my heart broken again so soon after Joffrey…”

He pulls her to him so quickly that she puts her arms up to brace herself against his chest. His lips are on hers in an instant, kissing her, and she’s kissing him back desperately. She clings to him, like a leaf clinging to a tree, just like the David Bowie song, and her hand grasps his jacket as he wraps his arms around her back, one hand coming to rest on the back of her neck. And then he parts from her, resting his forehead against hers and placing two tender kisses upon her lips, before releasing her from his grasp.  

“Have a good night, Sansa.” He bows his head to her and then leaves her there, mouth open in shock, the feel of his lips and the rasp of his beard lingering like a ghost that will follow her home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither one of them are very good at the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for me to update this!   
> I'm too indecisive to title this chapter right now.

She spends half of the ride home in shock, but rather quickly works herself up to anger. The nerve of him, kissing her like _that,_ and then just walking away… who _does_ that?

And yet it was an incredibly clever move on his part, because she’s certainly thinking about it and, good lord, she is so worked up she has half a mind to drive to his apartment and throw him down on his couch and… and _what_ , exactly?

She debates calling Margaery the Meddler, but hesitates. Perhaps now is not the time to involve either her or Jeyne or anyone else, actually. Lord knows she could certainly use their help navigating this mess, but the idea of keeping things secret for now makes her heart flutter and heat pool in her belly.

She has not felt this way in a very long time. There is a part of her that thinks that perhaps she has never truly felt this way before; the beginning of her relationship with Joffrey was similar in a few ways, but also… different. Maybe it’s because she’s older, wiser, or maybe it’s because it’s _Jon_.

When she gets home, she is incapable of sleeping, so she lays in bed with Lady at her side and a Margaret Atwood novel in her hands. She’s certainly not paying any attention, however; she’s been on the same page for a half an hour.

She nearly jumps when her phone rings, and her heart starts pounding when she sees that it’s Jon. Half of her wants to ignore it, play the game, which he clearly has no issue doing. However, she’s a sucker, goddammit, and she waits about ten seconds and picks up anyway.

“Hi,” she says after a deep breath.

“Hi,” he says back. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was just getting ready for bed.”

“Good.” There is silence for a moment. “I apologize for earlier.”

“Please stop apologizing for everything,” she says. “You’re not a predator, preying on the innocent new girl. It was very welcomed.”

“No, no,” he says, taking in a deep breath of his own. She can hear a wince in his voice, and imagines him performing one of his nervous tasks, perhaps running a hand through his hair or pushing his sleeves up his forearms. “I apologize for kissing you and walking away. I realize now it may have come off as… deliberately confusing.”

She laughs at this. “No shit. I knew what you were doing. I’ve seen movies. You were trying to drive me crazy.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’d thought about it after I’d walked away and realized that I can’t play that game.” He pauses for a second, and Sansa can hear the teasing smile in his voice when he asks, “Did it work? Did I drive you crazy?”

She laughs again and sinks her fingers in Lady’s downy undercoat. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “I like you, a lot.” He says it as a confession. His voice is rumbly and low, soothing to her ears, and she guesses that he is lying in bed. She imagines laying in that bed with him, placing her head on his chest and feeling the vibrations from the sound. She feels a little lightheaded from the thought.

She suddenly wonders if he sleeps with his shirt on or off, in boxers or pajama pants. Either way, the mental image is quite pleasant. If she were a little bolder, she might ask him. Instead, she bites her lower lip between her teeth.

“I like you too,” she says, pulling herself out of her thoughts.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sansa. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

\--

She and Margaery have breezed through much of the work required of them by the time Tyrion and Jon arrive. It’s been a successful day, and Sansa is buzzing with energy.

“If you two aren’t careful, I’ll have to expand your operation,” Tyrion remarks with a grin. From behind him, Jon meets her eyes with a small smile.

“We’re up for the challenge,” Margaery says, bouncing on her heels.

“Speak for yourself!” Sansa quips teasingly.

“Sansa!” Tyrion appears to have a thought come to his head suddenly, and he claps his hands together. “I forgot to tell you. The fourth anniversary of our grand opening is coming up soon, weekend after Valentine’s Day, and I suppose it’s a bit of a tradition for us to have a party. And the best part is, it’s catered by someone else!”

“Are you inviting me, or am I the ‘someone else’?” She glances back at Jon, hoping he finds her funny. He seems to, as his smile twitches temporarily into a bigger one.

“You’re the someone else,” Margaery teases. “You can cook for twenty-plus people all by yourself, right?”

“Oh, definitely, as long as you help me.”

Jon and Tyrion retreat into Tyrion’s office to discuss orders. Margaery turns to her as soon as the door closes.

“Dress up for the party. A little slutty, perhaps.” Sansa almost chokes at this.

“It’s the middle of winter in Toronto, Margaery. I don’t do ‘a little slutty’ in the winter.”

“You can wear tights. It’s on a heated patio, you’ll be fine.” She purses her lips, her eyes mischievous. Her voice drops to a murmur. “How are you and Jon doing, anyway?”

“We’re… things haven’t changed?” Sansa squeaks; she isn’t even sure who she thinks she’s kidding. Certainly not Margaery, who is frustratingly keen about these sorts of things.

“So he’s eye-fucking you for no reason?” Margaery’s eyebrows are raised so high Sansa thinks they might disappear into her hairline. Sansa can feel her cheeks burn. She opens the cooler and sticks her head in, pretending to search for something.

“He’s not _eye-fucking_ me,” Sansa says.

“I’ve seen eye-fucking. That was definitely eye-fucking.”

“Who’s eye-fucking who?” a voice says. Great. _Great._

“Never mind, Theon,” Sansa says. Margaery laughs.

“Petyr. Petyr is eye-fucking Sansa,” Margaery lies. Well, it’s probably not too far off from the truth.

“Oh. He eye-fucks everyone,” Theon says, as an attempt at a reassurance. “I think he was eye-fucking Gendry the other day…”

“Who’s eye-fucking me?” Gendry asks. Sansa wasn’t even aware he was there to begin with.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Sansa mutters to herself and walks in the cooler and lets the door gently shut behind her. She does not let it latch, although she is half tempted to trap herself in there and lock the door, so everyone will leave her alone. The cool air feels very good on her flushed cheeks.

_You win this time, Margaery._

\--

Sansa and Margaery finished early, as expected, and so Tyrion had given them the option of either going home early or staying and taking stock of the pantries. Margaery had chosen the former, and Sansa had chosen the latter, for extra money and a chance to talk to Jon.

He’d waited almost ten minutes after she’d entered the pantry to follow in after her. He’d originally feigned a need for flour, but Sansa was fairly certain she had seen enough flour by his work station earlier. The empty canister he’d brought with him was dropped the second she’d smiled demurely at him and he’d moved forward to pull her to his chest.

They’ve been kissing for several long, hot minutes before he pulls back, sweeping a strand of hair that’s fallen out of her bun behind her ear.

“I’d like to take you out for a date, maybe Sunday night after Valentine’s Day rush is over.”

She smiles dreamily, feeling flushed and dizzy from the kissing. “I’d like that.” He grins at this, leaning forward and kissing her again.

“You know,” Sansa murmurs against his lips. “Anyone could walk in here at any moment and see us _necking_ …”

“’Necking.’” He chuckles against her. “That would be terrible.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Tyrion and Sam, and probably Gilly through association. They don’t know much, though, I promise. I needed to clear things with Tyrion first, and Sam figured things out pretty quickly on his own, so…”

“Very clever of him.”

“He’s a clever man.” He sweeps his lips down her jawline and she tilts her head back. He kisses the spot under her ear and she shivers at this, clutching at the back of his chef’s coat. He steps away from her then, a groan issuing from his throat. “I need to go. We can’t- not like this.” She nods. She’s fairly certain that they are a few seconds away from a health code violation. He presses his lips to hers again, briefly, almost chaste, and then retreats out of the room, not bothering to grab the empty canister, forgotten on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He tries so hard, but Jon's too nice for the game.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon have a busy Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my posting schedule seems to be so random. This chapter was originally intended to include The Date- I decided against it, as I wanted to devote an entire chapter to it and I still wanted to have a Valentine's Day chapter. So- the good news is, the next one is already partially written! Maybe it won't take me almost two weeks to get it to you. More on the next chapter or two in the end notes. 
> 
> As always, thanks so so much for reading and all of the awesome kudos and comments. Glad some of you enjoy silly, happy fluff just as much as I do.

Business for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day is somewhat slow. Tyrion reasons that people are saving their money for the holiday, and that sounds acceptable to Sansa, so she takes it as a truth.

Of course, this lull in activity provides ample opportunity to spend time with Jon. She’s surprised at just how many places there are where one can steal kisses in a busy kitchen staffed by so many people. So far, they’ve ducked into the coat room, the walk-in freezer, the walk-in cooler, Tyrion’s office…

Sansa wonders how long this can go on before someone catches them. There have certainly been a few close calls, most notably when Gendry had walked into the walk-in cooler while Sansa had her back pressed to the shelf behind her and Jon was hovering over her, about to brush her lips with his.

A few times, she has caught Margaery staring at her, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in concentration, as if she is trying to solve a puzzle. Sansa has a feeling that she has just about figured it all out and is waiting for the perfect time to strike. She’s not entirely sure what she will say when she does; the nature of their relationship is unclear to her, and they haven’t bothered to discuss it, not even when Jon calls her late at night before bed.

Valentine’s Day is the busiest day that she’s experienced thus far at Casterly Rock. Sansa finds herself infinitely grateful that Margaery had insisted on preparing ahead of time by baking several flourless chocolate tortes ahead of time. She has absolutely no time to see Jon at all, which she expects but still finds unfair. She’d never had the opportunity to celebrate Valentine’s Day the way that she’d wanted; it seemed as though every attempt at a date with Joffrey ended in an argument; once it even ended in a temporary break-up.

Sansa almost forgets about her brother’s pending proposal until Gilly gives her the signal to let her know that Robb has arrived. Gilly tells Jeyne that someone has insisted on meeting the chef that prepared her steak. Jeyne, ever humble, blushes at this and Sansa fears for a moment that she’ll refuse. When she does leave the kitchen, Sansa waves everyone over to the door so they may follow her out.

Robb ducks out from underneath a table when everyone is assembled behind her and gets down on one knee. Jeyne says yes before he can even get the question out, and it’s all so sweet and admittedly corny that Sansa has to dab tears off her cheeks. Behind her, discreetly, Jon strokes her forearm with his fingertips.

If this is the most she’ll get for Valentine’s Day this year, she’ll take what she can.

\--

The last customers leave the restaurant fifteen minutes after closing time, and it seems like everyone still on staff cheers as soon as the door shuts behind them. Tyrion immediately cracks open a bottle of champagne and pours everyone a glass.

Jeyne ducks out early, understandably wanting to spend time with Robb. Sam and Gilly leave soon after, obviously keen to enjoy the last of their holiday alone together. Sansa thinks, for a brief second, about formulating a plan to duck out early with Jon, but knows that it would seem too suspicious.

When Sansa retreats into the back to retrieve a spare flourless chocolate cake that everyone certainly deserves, Jon is waiting for her. He’s leaning against her prep table, arms crossed over his chest, tapping his elbows with his fingertips.

“You killed it tonight,” Jon tells her, and she can’t help but grin, her cheeks turning pink.

“We _all_ killed it tonight,” she says, correcting him. He laughs.  

“I’m trying to be smooth,” he admits. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Do you want any cake?” She holds the platter out to him, but he shakes his head.

“Thanks, but I’m too exhausted for sweets. I think if I ate anything I’d get a stomach ache.” He stands up straight and takes a step closer to her. She thinks about kissing him in this moment, but knows that it would be far too risky. “I’ve been thinking about our date.”

“Yeah?” She’s curious now.

“Normally, I would surprise you and just pick you up and bring you out.” He exhales a breath she didn’t know he was holding and runs one hand through his now-loose hair. “I don’t think I want to do that. I promised to teach you how to make a good steak a while ago, and the offer still stands.” He frowns suddenly. “It would be in my apartment. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I just, uh, thought it would be good to stay in and away from restaurants after a hectic Valentine’s Day weekend…”

“I’d love that,” she blurts out. _Yesplease._ The thought of being alone with Jon in his apartment makes her feel giddy and anxious. “I think it’s a great idea. As long as you don’t laugh at me when I turn the steak into the texture of a shoe.”

It is his turn to smile. “I doubt that. I’d still eat it. Happily, even.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I was thinking that I could slip out early with you tomorrow night, granted that the night is slow enough.”

Sansa prods him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m not attending our first date in my work attire. Even if it is in your apartment.”

“Okay, fine, fine. You can go home and change first. And then I’ll pick you up around… eight?”

“Well, that depends. Can I leave a little early tomorrow?”

“Are you just using me for my managerial privileges?” Jon asks, tone light and playful. She rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I’m seducing you so that I can beg off a half-hour early a few times a month.”

His eyebrows raise at this. Almost as if he can’t help himself, he says, “So you’re seducing me, now?”

Sansa regrets using the word almost immediately. She blushes, likely tomato-red, but doesn’t respond.

“Relax,” Jon says. _That’s rich, coming from Mr. Fidget._ ”I’m only teasing.” He takes a peek beyond her shoulder at the swinging doors to the dining room. He must be content with what he sees, because he takes the opportunity to close the space between them, resting his hand underneath the bun in her hair to pull her lips to his. Without thinking, her fingers fall from his chest to his waist, hooking into his belt loops and drawing him in, so that his body is flush against hers.

It takes everything she has not to deepen the kiss until he spins them around and presses her into the table behind him. She feels a delicious thrill at the thought of it. They’ve never done anything else besides eye each other in this kitchen, saving kisses like these for hidden corners and closets and, even once, Tyrion’s office. This is a new feeling; the sexual tension blooming between them is at a fever pitch, so intense that the thought of being caught _in flagrante delicto_ by Tyrion or Margaery or Gendry doesn’t even bother her. Joff had kissed her, taken her out on dates, even charmed her, but she’d never felt this sort of _hunger_.

He breaks from her lips, both of them panting slightly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sansa,” he says with a smile, his voice husky.

She melts.

Thankfully, no one seems to notice as Jon and Sansa emerge together from the kitchen, too enraptured in a story that Tyrion is drunkenly telling about his time in culinary school. Jon lets Tyrion finish, and then goes into a story of his own (which ends with him having a broken ankle), and then Margaery follows his up with hers. They all stay well into the late hours of the night, past two, sharing stories, eating, and laughing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, clearly, a possibility for some sexy-time presents itself in the next chapter. I originally intended it to be smutty as all get out, but I'm not sure if including the ~dirty details~ fits this story. I'll still probably write the smut, but I'm not sure if it'll be in this story or as a one-shot companion piece- maybe even from Jon's POV. I'm so torn! Am I making sense?Let me know what you guys think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon picks Sansa up for their date. His butt looks cute in jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it always takes me a while to get a new chapter up!  
> This chapter is not smutty but gets a little hot and heavy. I'll be honest with you: I almost added the smut anyway. I actually wrote a good chunk of it before deciding to cut it short. The truth is is that the chapter would have been probably 6,000 words long by the time I finished.  
> I saved it all, though, so look forward to that possibly being a separate vignette, also here on ao3.  
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated. I cannot get over how kind you all have been. It means so much.  
> Feel free to follow me, send me prompts and love (which I will give back in great abundance) over at disorganizeddomesticgoddess.tumblr.com.

Sunday goes by in a blur, which is not entirely unusual for a Sunday, especially after Valentine’s Day. Sansa’s managed to “convince” Jon to let her leave at 6, even sweetening the deal by arriving two hours earlier than usual, so she has two hours to go home and get ready. It doesn’t feel like enough, but any earlier will raise suspicion. As it is, she’s already lied to Margaery and told her that she has “family stuff”.

The usual 20-minute drive home takes only 15 minutes, and Sansa thanks her lucky stars that she hasn’t been pulled over for speeding. She practically runs up to her bedroom, stopping only for a moment to let her parents know she might not be coming home tonight. It might be wishful thinking on her part, but she’s not entirely sure what to expect.

She decides to wear mostly natural make-up and leave her red hair tumbling down over her shoulders. She has no clue what Jon will be wearing, and doesn’t want to spend too much time fussing over her outfit, so she decides to go fairly simple: a heather grey scoop-backed skater dress with three-quarter sleeves, a pair of sheer black tights, and a long-chained gold necklace.

When she looks at herself in the full length mirror, she frowns. The dress seems too short, especially on her long legs. She tugs at the hem, but it still only comes up to mid-thigh. She remembers Margaery’s words: _Dress a little slutty_. Would Jon like ‘slutty’? She isn’t sure if the dress would qualify. Normally, she would never spend so much time thinking about it; she’s worn this dress maybe a million times and never paid too much attention to the length. Is she being too forward? Should she wear jeans instead?

She’s still debating changing when Jon sends her a text that he’s arrived a full five minutes early. She decides to just go with her first instinct (she can’t help being tall, after all). When she arrives to his car, she sees that he hasn’t yet changed out of his work clothes. His face softens when he looks at her, taking care not to ogle her.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “I mean, you always look beautiful, but… I hope you don’t mind that I haven’t had the opportunity to freshen up yet. I seem to have some sort of… crust…” He scratches at a spot on his pants with his fingernail.

“You look dashing, even when you’re crusty,” she says, and she swears she can see his cheeks turn pink. He gives a small chuckle and smiles at his steering wheel before putting the car in drive and heading down the street.

Jon lives on the third floor of a split level apartment, and Sansa realizes how out of shape she is by the time they reach the landing to his apartment. Immediately upon unlocking it, Jon goes to the fridge, leaving Sansa to stand in his living room to take it all in.

He plops the steaks he’s purchased on the counter, pats them dry, and sprinkles them generously with salt and pepper. “Have to let them sit,” he says. “Let me change, first.” She nods. He practically runs to his bedroom and he’s out within five minutes. He’s dressed simply, in a black pair of jeans and a gray v-necked t-shirt, but he looks effortlessly handsome all the same. He’s untied his hair so it is loose around his face, and she admires his inky black curls from afar, wishing more than anything to run her hands through them.

He pulls out several containers from the fridge; one has crispy little baby potatoes, the other an arugula salad. It seems as though he’s spent a bit of time preparing for this. The thought makes her heart swell a little.

He spreads the baby potatoes on a baking sheet and slides them into a preheated oven. He then gestures her to come over to the stove.

“Okay,” He pulls out a cast iron pan, sets it on the stovetop with a small clang, and hands her a spatula. “There’s a few ways to do this, but this is how I do it. You want to set the pan up as high as possible. You want to get it practically smoking…”

 _I don’t care about this steak at all._ She’s never had the opportunity to just sit and watch him cook before; she’s always had a million and one things to do in the kitchen. There is something so ridiculously sexy about it that she’s almost willing to let the steak burn in the stupid pan and push him up against the counter top and…

“Following me so far?” He has butter in the pan, and he’s holding one of the steaks pinched between two fingers.

“Yes,” she blurts, a blush creeping up her neck. He looks at her curiously and chuckles.

“Is this boring to you?” He drops the steak into the pan. His tone is light, playful, but there is an edge of uneasiness in his voice.  

Admittedly, it was, but only because she could think of about a thousand things that she’d rather see him do with those hands.

 _Sansa Fucking Stark,_ her inner voice scolds her. She cannot let him think that this date idea was bad, because it absolutely wasn’t- she was just a goner the moment they stepped over the threshold to his apartment.

“No,” she says cautiously. _I’m just a little distracted by how your butt looks in those jeans._

His lips twitch into a little smirk that is utterly confusing to her. He finishes the steak, sets it on a plate to rest (“Letting it rest is really important!”), and steps aside. The whole process takes only a matter of minutes.

“Your turn,” he says, gesturing to the stove, amused expression still plain on his face. She glances at him once and then steps towards the stove. “You’ll want to add another pat of butter.” She does so. She grabs the steak between two fingers and gently lays it down in the pan.

“Good so far?” she asks, and he hums in approval. He steps behind her, so close he’s practically flush against her, but not quite. A heat pools low in her belly, something she hasn’t felt since the beginning with Joffrey, when they were both still _trying._

“You’ll only want to flip it once, give it a few minutes on both sides,” he says. He’s talking to her about steak but he might as well be talking dirty to her, the way that he’s so close to her and murmuring in her ear. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck and the shell of her ear. It makes her shiver.

She is about to lean back into him, to press her back and ass up against him, when the oven beeps, breaking them both out of their reverie. She involuntarily makes a disappointed noise in her throat as he steps away from her to grab a potholder to pull the potatoes out of the oven.

They smell amazing, something Sansa would definitely appreciate more if there wasn’t something she wanted much, much more.  

This steak seems to take much, much longer to cook, even though she’s following Jon’s instructions exactly. She lets it rest for a few moments, and he takes the steak that she’s cooked onto his own plate.

“It’s probably better than mine,” he says. “Sorry.”

They sit down to his small dining table to eat.

“How is it?” she asks him, a little more timid than she would like.

He cuts into it, and it bleeds, just the way she likes it. “Perfect.”

They eat in relative silence for a few minutes, before she gets so uncomfortable that she has to break it.

“The night that you kissed me for the first time…” she begins, and he immediately laughs.

“Margaery put me up to it. I don’t know why I listen to her.” She drops her fork and gapes at him, almost choking. That little sneak!

“She… she what?” she sputters. Jon shrugs. “I can’t believe that! She was pushing me towards you for weeks and then she acted like she had no clue that we kissed. She’s still acting like she knows nothing...”

Jon looks at her for a moment, and then cracks a smile. “God, I wonder how many of the decisions I’ve made in the past two years were influenced by Margaery Tyrell, and I’ve never actually realized it.”

She can’t help but laugh at this. “Well, I can’t be too upset. I like the way things worked out.” They both laugh for a few seconds, but suddenly the laughter dies down and he’s just looking at her. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, meeting his gaze.

They continue to eat until their plates are clean and he graciously takes her plate to the sink. She stands up and takes a good look at his apartment for the first time.

He has no television in his living room, just a simple beige couch and a matching armchair. In the corner, there’s a record player. _Of course._

She remembers when her Uncle Benjen told her that you can learn a lot about a person by searching through their music. She’s drawn to that record player, walking towards it as Jon scrubs the dishes in his sink. She crouches down to the milk crate that he’s filled with records underneath the record player stand and leafs through them. A lot of the records are older, definitely from the 80’s. She isn’t familiar with a lot of bands from that era, but she recognizes a few names: The Smiths, My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, The Cure…

“I see you’ve found my record collection,” he says from behind her. She stands up and turns to face him.

“Of course you own records. You’re such a hipster,” she teases. He makes an indignant noise at this. “I’m only teasing.”

He cracks another smile. “I know.”

She turns to the record player again. She has The Cure’s _Disintegration_ in her hand. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She sets the record, very gently, on the record player and moves the needle to the fourth track, Lovesong, which is the one song that she is one hundred percent sure she knows. “I’m sorry if it’s a little overdone. I don’t know much about the music you like.”

“This is just my record player. I like lots of things that I don’t own on record.” He closes the gap between them as the song begins to play. It certainly sets a mood, especially with the dim, warm light from the lamp in the opposite corner. “And this song is fine.” He wraps strong arms around her and she can feel his breath on the back of her neck again. She turns around in his arms and is pleased to see that he is gazing down at her, features soft, with a small smile playing on his lips.

She brings her lips to his and kisses him, gently at first. He lets her lead, mimicking her gentleness until she lifts herself up onto her tiptoes to have better access to his mouth and sets her arms around his shoulders. They are kissing harder and deeper now, his fingers in her hair and his tongue running along the seam of her lips.

She opens to him willingly, and he groans into her mouth. “God, Sansa,” he mutters, hands roaming down her back to her hips. “Jesus.”

They part, foreheads together. Her heart feels like it’s going to pound out of her chest. “We’re finally alone,” she muses as he moves his lips to her jaw, and then at the pulse in her throat. She sighs. “Finally.”

He chuckles against her neck. “Not in a pantry...”

“Or a freezer.”

“Thank god for that.” His words are vibrating against her skin, sending a thrill running down her spine. Lovesong stops and another starts, and he removes the needle from the record. “Next song is depressing.”

“What’s it called?”

“Last Dance.”

“We can’t have that.”

The whole apartment is almost unbearably quiet now, save for their labored breathing. Her hands move to the hem of his shirt, sliding under to touch his hot flesh, and then up, and up. He pulls away from her as she begins to remove his shirt, lifting his arms to help. She drops it to the floor. “Oh. I see.” She flushes pink. He closes the space between them, kissing her again and pulling her flush against him. She can feel how hard he is, and she presses her hips into his, making him groan.

“Bedroom,” she says, pressing again. He releases her mouth and drops his head to her collarbone.

“Are you sure?” He lays a hot, open mouthed kiss on the flesh that is accessible to him.

“Yes,” she hisses. “Please.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a mess. I apologize for that. I also apologize that a good chunk of the beginning is taken from the smutty companion to this story, Crystal and Clover. I made this chapter extra long to make up for it, plus the crazy amount of time it took for me to write it. 
> 
> I also kind of skipped forward in time a bit towards the end. I hope you'll understand by the end of the next chapter. Truth be told, I really don't want to go past 10 chapters + an epilogue with this story. This just isn't the type of story that requires much more than that. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and your continued support. It means the world to me. Follow me, prompt me, or just tell me about your day at disorganizeddomesticgoddess.tumblr.com.

Sansa wakes up at almost 11 the next morning, naked and nuzzled into an unfamiliar pillow, a pleasant weight covering the right side of her body. She turns her head and is greeted by a mess of wild black curls. She takes a ringlet and tugs gently, releasing it and watching it bounce back into a perfect spiral. The back of her hand brushes up against the side of Jon’s face.

Jon’s dark grey eyes pop open, almost as if he was simply pretending to sleep.

“Good morning,” he says softly, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. She’s sure her hair is wild and knotted, mussed from tossing her head on the pillow and his apparent need to lace his fingers in it.

“Good morning,” she responds, reaching out her hand to hold his on the pillow between them. She kisses his knuckles, one at a time, and he smiles at her, brushing the side of his thumb against her lips gently.

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” Sansa lies, sitting up and straddling his hips. She doesn’t want to get up just yet; already her mind is focused on one very precise thing. He places his hands on her hips and sits up so that she is settled in his lap, dipping his head to place open-mouthed kisses on her right collarbone. She’s pleased to find that he’s hard against her abdomen already. Memories of the previous night echo through her brain, causing her lower belly to burn and reminding her of why they were getting up so late in the first place.

Her stomach growls loudly, betraying her.

“That sounds like hunger to me,” he says against the base of her throat. She sighs and tilts her head back, and he moves his lips towards her left collarbone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He takes her breasts into his hands, thumbs tracing their undersides and then stroking over hardening nipples. She sighs again, leaning into his touch. “You need your energy.”

“Mmm? What for?”

He doesn’t respond with words, just leans up to capture her lips with his. After a few minutes of kissing (slow and lovely and _hot_ , even though she’s sure her morning breath is atrocious), he slips out from underneath her, leaving the bed and her and slipping on a pair of boxers. “Stay here.”

“Tease,” she calls after him, but he just laughs, clearly on a mission.  

In his absence, she takes the time to glance at her phone. Jon’s is fully charged next to hers, and hers is close to dying, so she unplugs his and plugs hers in. There is a text from Margaery that just says _“So how’s the family stuff?”_ with a very skeptical looking emoji.

 _“Oh, trust me, I’ll text you later,”_ Sansa texts back.

Jon’s practically giddy when he returns with a breakfast tray made for breakfast in bed. On it is two bananas and two everything bagels, split and toasted, with cream cheese on the side. He’s made a French press of coffee, accompanied by two hefty vintage stoneware mugs and a pitcher of half and half. He looks so sweet and happy standing there that her heart does little flip flops in her chest.

“I didn’t think about breakfast. I would have gotten you almond croissants from the bakery down the road…”

“You could serve me a single piece of unbuttered toast and I’d still be charmed,” she admits. It’s the honest truth.

“At least the bagels are from a bakery.” He sets the tray onto the bed and then crawls in under the covers, careful not to jostle it or knock it over. He pours them coffee (and puts extra cream in hers, which is something that she is always so touched by when she realizes that he remembers). She starts schmearing cream cheese on her bagel and then hands the knife to him. She’s amused to find that he uses an obscene amount of cream cheese, just like her little brother Rickon.

They eat quickly, and Jon takes the tray away, setting it on his dresser and turning back towards the bed. “Energized?”

“Absolutely,” Sansa says, admittedly feeling a little better with some food and caffeine in her.

He slides onto the bed and under the sheet with her. His fingers gently stroke her sides as he kisses her, and she arches her back towards him, wanting to feel closer.

His lips form a smirk against hers. “And now, for dessert.” His head disappears under the covers and she laughs.

“You did not just say that!” He pops his head out from under the covers, grinning.

“I did.”

\--

It’s a good feeling, being warm and safe and falling in love.

That’s what she’s doing, she realizes. He’s only been in her life a little more than a month and she’s already falling in love. For the first time, it’s on her terms.

She doesn’t voice how she feels. She cannot. The moment is too perfect.

“I need a shower,” he says. “I must stink.”

“I like your stink,” she murmurs, burrowing deeper into his chest, inhaling deeply.

“Somebody’s gotta. Can you stand? Can _I_ stand?”

She peers up at him, eyes wide. “Are we going to have shower sex?”

He chuckles and kisses her forehead. “I’m flattered, but you severely overestimate my stamina. Are you trying to kill me?”

She grins. “No…”

“That’s not very convincing.”

They do _not_ have shower sex, deciding that, in their weakened states, mixing thrusting and limbs and water could mean certain death, or at least a trip to the emergency room. It’s nice and intimate anyway, with Sansa washing Jon’s curls and feeling his fingers work shampoo into her hair scalp in turn. When all of the soap is washed away, they are silent as they hold each other, the water beating down on them slowly cooling in temperature until it is too cold for either of them to stand.

They spend the rest of the day alternating between napping and watching television. It’s something so mundane and but it feels so much like a relationship that she _has_ to say something.

“So…” She lifts her head from his chest and looks at him. They’re on their third episode of _The Office,_ and apart from the occasional comment about the show, they’ve been really silent. It’s been a comfortable silence, and she’s probably about to ruin that. “This. Us.”

He nods, as if he knows exactly what she’s talking about. “Yeah.”

“What is… us? What are we?” She’s never been the one to broach this subject before. With Joffrey, it had just been _‘You’re my girlfriend now, Sansa.’_ She’d found that sort of aggressive behavior appealing back then. How stupid she was.

“What do you want to be?” His eyes are wide and he fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and then tugging on the trim of the couch. She groans, burying her face into his chest.

“Don’t make _me_ say it.” She’s so afraid of rejection.

“Well, we’re going to walk in to work tomorrow. What are we going to walk in as?”

“Are we… a thing? Official?” This all feels so very juvenile, very high school. 

“Official?” He cracks a grin. “I mean, that’s the hope, isn’t it? I hope I didn’t give you the sort of impression that that wasn’t what I was interested in.”

“You didn’t. I just don’t want to assume,” she admits.

\--

She leaves that night, texting Margaery as soon as she gets in her car. She knows exactly how to get her going. _“Jon has a really nice apartment.”_

Margaery doesn’t text back, but rather calls her immediately.

“You minx,” she says, tone accusatory.

“You meddler,” Sansa retorts. Margaery laughs, and any frustration that Sansa had had with her washed away.

She tells her all about the date and the conversation on the couch, sparing the gory details. She knows the story is a little sparse for something that has taken place over the past twenty-four hours, but she isn’t exactly keen to sharing intimate details about her new sex life with Margaery Tyrell.

\--

By the next Saturday night, only a handful of people are in the know, which Sansa expected. When she and Jon arrive to the anniversary party hand-in-hand, everyone seems to notice, but no one is surprised enough to say anything.

Had they been that obvious all along? After several gin and tonics, she works up the courage to ask Gendry. He gives her a funny look.

“You weren’t dating before? I sort of figured, what with all the looks and you two always disappearing into the pantry together…”

Sansa feels her cheeks burn. “What? I- we didn’t- that…”

“You _did_ ,” pipes up Theon, who apparently had been listening the entire time. He’s grinning as he pops a _croquembouche_ in his mouth. Jon sidles up next to her and wraps an arm around her waist. He’s got a paper plate in his right hand. He smells a bit like bourbon.

“You’ve got to try these little toasts. They’re like French onion soup… but the stuff is on toast.”

Sansa takes one and pops it into her mouth, groaning a little bit louder than she would be sans alcohol. “That’s amazing!”

Jon presses an enthusiastic kiss to the top of her head and Sansa notices her brother Robb staring at them from across the rooftop. He’s in a conversation with Jeyne and Sam and Gilly, but now his attention is focused directly on them. His head tilts to one side and he scrunches his face up the way he always does when he’s thinking.

If everyone else had figured it out by now, then Robb might be the very last person to do so.

 He’s stalking towards them now, Jeyne on his heels, and Sansa worries that he might bum-rush Jon through the glass and off the rooftop. When he does finally reach them, though, he seems relatively calm.

“So, this is a thing, apparently,” he remarks, angling the bottom of his bottle of beer towards them. “You didn’t think to tell your favorite brother?”

“Well, I _tried_ to tell Rickon, but he threw a Chewbacca Lego at my head and told me it was gross.”

Robb pokes her in the ribs. “Rickon would never throw Chewy.”

“I’m sorry. I just assumed Jeyne had told you,” Sansa admits.

“I will go my grave with your secrets, Sansa,” Jeyne says over Robb’s shoulder. “And I didn’t know that… well, I knew. We all knew. I just didn’t know if you wanted me to know.”

Robb raises an eyebrow at that, and then laughs. Clearly, the beer he’s been drinking has put him into a good mood.

He claps Jon on the shoulder, his face deadly serious. “Have fun with this one. She’s a bathroom hog, and she’ll eat all of the peanut butter cups out of your trick-or-treat bag if you aren’t careful.”

Jon laughs heartily at this. Sansa sends a poorly-aimed kick in Robb’s direction, which he dodges rather effectively.

Tyrion calls a toast a half hour later, and everyone quiets to listen to him. He’s clearly a little drunk, standing on top of the bar, but his words are sincere.

“Here we are. Year four. I’m still amazed that we’ve made it this far, that we’re thriving.” He pauses. His voice breaks a little. Tears well up in Sansa’s eyes. She’s a sympathetic crier, and it only gets worse when she’s drunk. “It’s so hard to find success in this business. I’ve been doing this work for almost two decades, I’ve seen restaurants come and go. I’ve worked with some really awful people, and some not-so-awful people. This staff is the best staff I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. I owe it all to you.” He raises his glass. “To you all. And the future, which I believe will be _very_ bright.” Sansa can’t help but notice that Tyrion looks pointedly at Jon when he says it.

They all raise their glasses in a toast. As soon as Tyrion jumps down from the bar, the laughter and chatter begins again. She goes with Jeyne to get a drink at the bar, stopping to chat with Tyrion for a few minutes on their way back. She notices Jon and Robb talking alone. Their laughter and body language suggests their chat is comfortable and friendly. She knows that the two of them have met before, have even spent time together, but this was different, their relationship was different. She recalls the tension emanating off Robb whenever Joffrey came to visit their house, and the arguments that spawned between the two siblings as soon as Joff had left. Robb’s very open disapproval of Joffrey is probably something that she will always regret not taking seriously. Sansa’s relieved to see that now, things seem to be quite different. Robb’s approval is paramount to her.  

When it’s time to leave, it’s Jon’s apartment that Sansa rides a taxi to. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she curls up beside him, tucking her head into his chest.  

He takes her up to his apartment. He gives her a t-shirt to borrow and they strip down to their underwear. They’re both too exhausted to do much of anything; instead, she lays on her stomach as he rubs her sore feet and aching calves for her. He presses two gentle kisses to the back of her knees before crawling up to lay beside her. It’s the first night she’s stayed at his apartment without having sex. The two of them fall asleep quickly, his hand up her shirt and warm on the small of her back.

\--

Two months in to their relationship, she’s still in awe of how much they just _work_. She’s spending half the week at his house at this point, but they haven’t grown tired of each other. They never seem to fail to make each other laugh and they never run out of things to say. Better still, her family adores him: he drinks beer and watches hockey with Robb and her father, helps her mother in the kitchen, and is working on constructing the Death Star out of Legos with Rickon. Even the dogs seem to love him.

In turn, she’s grown to like the little family of his that she’s been able to meet. His mother has been gone for years now, and his father was never around, but his Aunt Dany is delightful, even though her job as a humanitarian aid worker means that Sansa has only seen her over the course of one weekend.  

It’s three in the morning, and she’s wrapped up in his arms. They’re restless, unable to sleep, searching for something. Things are different, changed somehow, like there is something hanging in the air in front of them. He’s inside of her, slowly moving over her when he says it.

“I love you.” It’s the first time he’s said it. She almost doesn’t hear it. The declaration comes out as a husky sigh against the hollow at the base of her throat. She freezes, and he does too, pulling back to look at her. Things are quiet, save for the late April rain and the occasional rumble of thunder.  

“I’m sorry, it just came out.” His brows knit together. “Is it too soon? Did I say a bad thing?”

With anyone else, she would feel stupid at the tears that sting at her eyes. Instead, she grins at him, pulling him down for a kiss. When they part, he rests his forehead against hers, lips brushing against her cheekbone. His eyes are dark and intense. She knows that he means it, can feel it emanating from him as he pours himself into her. “I love you too, Jon,” she whispers. It feels as though something she’s been keeping in her chest has been let loose; it leaves her heart fluttering in its wake. He exhales a relieved little laugh and begins moving again. She pulls his head to the crook of her neck, lacing her fingers in his curls, wanting desperately to feel closer to him, but he never seems close enough. She thinks maybe he could settle in her skin and she’d still be left wanting more.

He says it again. She says it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I don't use Robb enough. I love Robb, and I love the connection between him and Jon.


End file.
